


Unfiltered

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [312]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:43:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7878736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>madilyn asked for "John Tracy, the Space Baegel himself, trying to coordinate a clusterfuck rescue running on 4 hours sleep, half a bagel and a cup of cold coffee (having had to use a small boiled sweet as sugar in it because he ran out of sugar and milk) I have a whim to see John being the Snark Master we know he can."  This turned into less snark master and more captain sweary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfiltered

John knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but he thought he had it in balance now.  Pressure of rescues pushes down _here_ , space flight issues on the counterweight _there._ Every pile of worries and stresses perfectly mapped and timed so that nothing pushed too hard, too fast.  Equilibrium and stasis.

Then that earthquake nearly ripped the north island of New Zealand into two pieces, and balance was gone in the desperate, headlong rush of a truly global emergency.

There are clocks on the wall, green for flight ready, blue for break, red for flight-surgeon mandated rest.  Four clocks for his four brothers.  Virgil’s is red, back at the island and getting some desperately needed rest while Brains does running repairs and replenishes supplies on T2.  Alan is blue, but the clock is ticking down the final minutes until he went green again, and on comms, John can hear him already struggling back into his flight suit, the disgusting sounds of mastication clear in John’s ear.

John’s own stomach was a ball of acid; when stress really dug in like this, his appetite was always the first casualty.

Scott and Gordon were both green, at opposite ends of the clock. 

John flipped onto T1′s channel.  “Thunderbird 1, this is Thunderbird 5.  Status update.”

There’s a pause, then a click.  “Kinda busy here, John.”

“You think I fucking ain’t,” John snapped.  He floated over to his schematic, the fault line a pulsing red where it was torn asunder.  There were still too many unanswered calls for help.  “Shit, Scott.  You should have been gone from the CDC Command post five minutes ago.  Light a fire, move it.”

Scott just chuckled, sounding tired with his voice like sandpaper after days in the dust yelling for survivors.  “Sir, yes sir,” he drawled.

That startled a little laugh out of John.  “Fucker,” he said fondly.

“Foul-mouthed space case.  Don’t let grandma hear.”

“Who do you think taught me all the good ones.”  A flash of a priority message caught John’s attention, and he took in the key points in a glance.  “Napier CDC has requested assistance with assessment and planning.  Priority over previous coordinates.”

“On it.”  The background noise on Scott’s comm changed as he lifted up and sealed himself into his Bird.  The roar of T1′s ramjets was a comforting sound among the chatter of rescuers and survivors.  “Speaking of, when was the last time you got your head down, John.”

“Catnaps.”  John’s fingers were aching, and only the lack of gravity was preventing his knees from buckling.  

“What about food?”  Scott persisted.

“Bagel not too long ago.  Cup of coffee.”  Half of it was still in the zero-G container, floating up by Eos’ camera.  “Stop mother henning.  Disaster.  Rescue.  Do your fucking job.”

“It’s just,” Scott continued in that same, infuriatingly calm voice.  “You usually have to be pretty tired before you stop filtering your language like this.”

John paused, sighed, and rolled his eyes heavenward.   “Scott,” he said civilly.  “Shut the fuck up and go rescue some fucking civilians, asshat,”  With a flick of his fingers, John cut the channel.


End file.
